


Daycare: Unattended

by MyckiMor



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Season 3a spoilers, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:42:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1948521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiMor/pseuds/MyckiMor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were certain moments in life that called forth the question, "Why the hell do I teach children?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daycare: Unattended

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous Tumblr Prompt: Greenburg visiting Coach in the hospital and giving him a card.

 There were certain moments in life that called forth the question, "Why the fuck do I teach children?" Over the course of the last two decades, the debate had raged internally within Bobby Finstock on, oh... Say, a handful of occasions. _Especially_ with the group of brats he was currently in charge of. His birthday, for example... When the children ran amok, trying to make his day a special kind of hell. (Okay, so, he kind of enjoyed the attention the boys paid to the tasks at hand, but the little heathens didn't need to know that). And, school dances. He loved Danny, he really did, but, Scott McCall? The boy could do much better than _that_ little troublemaker, and he was glad to see that Danny had realized the same. But, never had there been a moment where the thought was so prevalent as this one, laying on the ground, flipping out with a God damned arrow stuck in his gut.  
  
"Don't panic," McCall kept telling him. "Stay calm." Easy for that little shithead to say. He wasn't the one who was mortally wounded. That boy probably didn't even know what real, life-and-death fear even felt like, let alone to try and diagnose it, and prescribe the methods to calm it down.  
  
Where the fuck was Greenberg? He needed to throw something.  
  
The ride to the hospital was quiet and uneventful, save for the odd, colourful curse word when they hit a pothole too hard, because fucking idiots _don't know how to drive_... The   
  
Doctor announced surgery, to the surprise of none, and Bobby went under without a fight. It was nice to know that he could have his lights professionally put out for a few hours. It wasn't like he had anything better to do, anyhow.  
  
They started the anesthetic, and Bobby rolled his eyes. Yeah, like he wouldn't notice when he got woozy. His thoughts wandered, and he could help but consider... Whoever took over his last two classes of the day was a brave soul, and a poor bastard at the same time. They'd get stuck with... Greenberg...  
  
It was some hours later - and, well after dark - when consciousness found him, again. There was a bare amount of light coming from a small lamp on the bedside table, only a hint more from the street lights, outside, peeking in through the curtains. His head was spinning, wildly, nausea quickly creeping up the back of his throat. Jesus Christ, how did he end up with this kinda' luck?

Glancing around in a hurry for something to puke into, Bobby was distracted by the sound of the door clicking open. He was about to scream for the nurse to bring a bucket, when the figure in the doorway caught his attention.

"What the hell are _you_ doing, here?" was the first sentence that made it out of his mouth. For, instead of a sweet little angel in scrubs, he was faced with all five-feet, eleven-inches of Greenberg. And, quite frankly, he still felt that Greenberg sucked.

The kid barely got two words out, before Bobby started to gag. He leaned over the side of the bed, bound and determined _not_ to vomit all over himself, when a small waste bucket was pushed to the bedside. No time to be grateful, Bobby unceremoniously yacked into the receptacle. He wasn't sure what he'd eaten, or why it had chosen to die and rot inside of him, but it was just un _god_ ly.

Dropping back onto the pillows, he tried to catch his breath. “Sorry,” he grumbled, not at-all certain as to why he was even bothering to apologize, in the first place. “It's the anesthetic.”

Greenberg smiled. “Well, I'd hardly accuse you of being pregnant, Coach.” He nudged the bucket to the side, and pressed the 'call' button on Bobby's controller. Teacher gave student a look, eyebrow raised, and Greenberg's smile only widened. “Doesn't bother me, anyway, y'know? What with working at the nursing home, and all.”

Tack that on to the list of things he had never been dying to know about his students. This one, in particular. _God,_ he was tired. Too tired to be messing with – ugh – _Greenberg,_ of all people.

The nurse strolled in after another minute, Greenberg informing her that he'd been ill, and, could they please have the evidence disposed of? Bobby just closed his eyes, tightly, willing the world to settle down for a bit. He felt like he was on a plane ride, barrel rolling this way and that. His stomach was certainly in the spirit, and he prayed that the nurse would be back with a fresh bag, soon.

“You look really tired.” It was Greenberg's voice, again. He'd almost forgotten his visitor was there. He peered at the boy through bleary eyes, but didn't say anything. “Don't fight it, Coach. That'll only make it worse. _Sleep._ ”

Covers were suddenly being tucked up around him, and the order was just too good to ignore. The last thing he would later be able to recall was the feeling of fingers brushing back his hair. For that split second, he felt like he was five years old, again, his mother nursing him through a fever, safe and warm.

* * *

A heavy sleeper, Bobby only woke up twice, that he could recall. Once, to speak to the doctor. Well, 'speak' was a bit of a generous term. He basically just nodded his head at what he was  _sure_ were inappropriate times, and gave completely ridiculous answers. He had to have been answering, after all. He could hear the words being directed at the doctor, even if he didn't really recall having said them, himself.

His second, brief stint of consciousness was centered around a couple of sips of water, and two small pills. He coughed the pills back out, on the first try. The nurse just picked them back up off the blanket, tossing them in the trash while Bobby tried to remember how to _breathe._ A hand was at his back, patting and rubbing in a soothing motion. He tried again, with a fresh packet of pills, this time managing to swallow them down, without incident. The nurse picked up the paper wrapper from the pills, thanked them both – whoever they _both_ were – and made her exit. Bobby was gone, again, before the latch closed on the door.

* * *

Three-fourteen a.m. At least, that was what the clock on the wall read, ticking up the seconds to the next whole minute. Bobby watched the second hand move, listened to the gentle, soothing  _click, click, click,_ as it went around the circle for another round.

_Click, click, click._

Inhaling, deeply, Bobby turned his head away from the wall, glancing toward the window where the first curses of daylight were pushing through the gaps in the curtains. He had to blink, a few times, catching sight of a foreign object in his line of sight.

A five-foot-eleven foreign object, curled up in a hospital chair, completely dead to the world, that shouldn't have even _been there_ to be _gin with._

Oh, if there was a God in Heaven, he would have-

And, that was when he spotted it. Settled on the table beside the bed, Bobby found himself face to face with a picture of a little duck in a leg cast, holding an umbrella to shield himself from the rain. It was a ridiculous little cartoon image, but he still reached out to nab the card, all the same. He opened it up, a smile crossing his lips, despite himself. They'd all signed it, every last brat on the lacrosse team. Stilinski had wished him a happy retirement, and Danny had added in a smiley face. Greenberg, whether surprisingly, had simply signed his name, and 'Get Well, Soon'. Odd, he had to admit. He was used to the sappy, overly-sentimental gestures that his overstayed-visitor liked to send him at every given opportunity.

Speaking of said visitor... Bobby picked up his empty plastic cup from the side of the bed, launching it toward Greenberg's chest. Unfortunately, morphine was a hell of a drug, and he missed by a country mile, the cup slamming straight into Greenberg's nose.

“ _Shit,_ ” Bobby cursed, trying to sit up, a bit, as Greenberg jerked awake in his seat. The kid's eyes were wide, hair disheveled, looking around like someone had tried to break in. Bobby couldn't help it. He laughed.


End file.
